


Moonlit Blades

by nocturnalKnight



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Humor, Brief Smut, Canon Divergence, Canon dialogue reused, Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, Expressive Talkative My Unit, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I hate fics that ignore students outside of the house so here have a dozen cameos, My Unit Is Named Ophelia, Romance, Sexual Tension, There’s not much smut just them falling for each other like dumbasses, may contain some shoujo tropes because felix is a big old tsundere, wrote this so that the felix romance actually has.......some romance lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 10:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21251963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnalKnight/pseuds/nocturnalKnight
Summary: “You’re scared of losing me. Don’t be. Don’t think we’re anywhere evennearfinished,” he warns. “I’m going to go out into the world after we win this, hone my blade, come back here and beat you. So you- you don’t even think about dying before then.”She puts a hand over her face and laughs. “I care about you too, Felix.”Or: how two sword-crazy idiots circle around each other until they fall in love.





	Moonlit Blades

When he sneaks into the training grounds after dinner, shaking off Sylvain, she’s there. A shadowed silhouette opposite the entrance between darkened pillars. She watches him advance with a knowing smile and crossed arms - her right arm is a blur as she tosses him a wooden blade and he catches it with ease.

He looks up at her, eyes narrowed. 

She advances onto the moonlit sand, dropping her coat, wearing only a black tank top and royal blue pants, feet completely bare. In her arms is a twin blade to his, and she raises it, smile never wavering. He almost wants to laugh. 

“I’ve been waiting for a challenge.” 

He moves. 

* * *

The professor beats him. Soundly. Easily. Almost as if it were a joke, to move quicker, faster, taking but glances and going straight for the jugular, her smile dissipated as if it were never there. 

By the end of it, he’s panting and almost to his knees, and she’s merely broken a sweat that she wipes off her forehead like a mild inconvenience. It’s disgusting, a complete humiliation and yet, his nerves are singing. To have met a match - no, not even a match, but an outright opponent - finally. 

Still, his ego is bruised. 

Something must show in his expression, a sour tang, because she passes him by and claps him on the shoulder, suddenly laughing, a bubble of humanity. 

“Oh, Fraldarius,” she says, gently, without malice. “Every man I’ve ever fought has felt what you feel now. Take a little heart. You’re as good a fighter as any enemy I’ve crossed swords with, if it makes you feel any better.” 

He steps away from her as if burned, and red-faced, he snaps, “That’s not good enough,” and disappears. 

* * *

He learns about her first name after their introduction. No one ever uses it, but he sees it scrawled absently next to a test, her name clear as day. Ophelia Eisner. A common name, if linked to insanity and tragedy. Dorothea must adore the potential in writing an opera about such an aptly named heroine. 

Ophelia - he tests the name in his mind - eludes and evades any kind of genre or definition. A commoner from nowhere, teaching the elite, unreadable and seemingly untouched by Church doctrine. He thought her inscrutable, a ruthless killer with no feeling or personality or interest in the world, until she stepped onto the sand with him and their blades ring out. 

She fights, at times, like a thief would - fast as lightning and fiendishly clever. Then she weaves around him, like a deadly dancer at the ballet, keeps him dangling on a string until his frustration pours over and she wins without him even landing a blow. Sometimes her movements remind him of Petra’s form. 

But more than that he can feel the seething hunger under her visage, unlike the boar’s abyssal bloodlust, but rather an unquenchable flame. He can read it in every thrust of her blade, her body in the dance of the battle, her lips ever so slightly pulled upwards. 

She loves the fight, the win, the sweat, and it’s especially evident when she brawls. He’s heard tell of all the stories about Caspar and Ophelia going hand-to-hand with every gang they’ve come across together. He’s seen her toss aside a blunt sword on the battlefield and go spinning as a flurry of fists upon an unsuspecting mage till they fell. 

They call her the Ashen Demon for her inscrutability, but he could read her the second they fought. She’s not a statue.

She’s a tempest.

* * *

She drags him to tea. She forces conversations out of him. She and Seteth both tag team him about making friends, as she invites Lysithea, Leonie, Dorothea, Ashe and Bernadetta to the table when they eat meals together. She and Ingrid have a silent agreement about getting him to come to class instead of training again. 

Felix is relentlessly anti-social, a self-proclaimed edgy “lone wolf”. She can tell there’s goodness underneath, hidden by grief and loss and persistent fury. He can hide it, but she can tell he feels like he lost two brothers that day: the illusion of Dimitri he had, and Glenn. 

Sometimes he’ll infuriate her to no end with his insensitivity and tunnel vision, still privileged and cocky as any noble. She takes great pleasure in defeating him on the sand then. But once in a while, too, he’ll surprise her with the rarest, sharpest bit of humor and then retreat back into his protective shell. He scoffs at her, acts generally like a jerk, but she likes him despite herself. 

She’s never afraid to be herself with him because being with him is like muscle memory - a twin blade.

* * *

She hears him approach. Instead of shifting into her stance, she turns around, hands open in a free and easy gesture as if offering peace. He looks up at her like she’s grown a third head, but grumpily puts aside the blade. 

She gestures down into the sand, picks up a handful of it. 

“Ashe, Ignatz and I were reading,” she says quietly. 

He scoffs. “You three and your absurd stories.” 

Ignoring him, she says, “I found a tale of warriors. Day men, as they called themselves, humans who were bound to the service of their supernatural clans, who could only move in the night. One day, the two most powerful clans of the six were at war. The skinny, young yet still dangerous and unpredictable day man up against the seasoned, grizzly veteran of his rival clan. Yet, neither won, though they had their day in the sand, blade to blade. For there was a traitor in their ranks who used their duel as a distraction to destroy both clans. The veteran gave up his life, pinning the traitor to the ground as he died, so that the skinny one could vanquish him and win.” 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“They reminded me of us,” she says. She laughs. “You probably think that’s stupid, huh?” 

“Am I the skinny one and you are the veteran?” 

Ophelia smiles faintly. “That makes me sound...old. I meant...the way they fought together, after spending so much time fighting each other, reminded me of us. It was so easy for them.” 

He concedes this one point begrudgingly, as any too-cool teenage boy is wont to do. “You’re not terrible on the battlefield.” 

She laughs, yet again. He hates that he makes a mental note of it, stupidly proud, because at first she rarely smiled, and now she’s laughing, talking more and he hates her. He hates that she’s pretty when she laughs. 

“You really know how to sweet talk, huh?”

“If you wanted sycophantic compliments, go find Sylvain. Now, are we going to fight, or what?”

* * *

He knows she’s popular. He’s disinterested in petty things such as romance, but he’s not blind. She walks the halls trailed by a bunch of eager students, the boar most eager of them all. 

He looks at her in passing and thinks of her smile as she steps into the sand, eyes gleaming in the night as they circle each other. He doesn't need to beg for her attention. He knows her better than any of them, under the stars and more alive than he ever sees her in battle. 

* * *

He’s looking for her around the cathedral one evening when he sees her sprinting like crazy across the bridge, hair whipping behind her and her eyes laughing. 

She stops suddenly in front of him, panting slightly, smiling. He shakes his head. 

“You are a strange one.” 

She tucks her stray hairs behind her ear sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I just...love it when it’s like this. The monastery is so huge and empty at night. There’s so much to explore, and never enough time in the day.” 

He crosses his arms and looks at her shining, eager face and almost laughs. “So.” he says evenly, “No training? You’re going to go wander off again?” 

She mutters something like “for a teenage boy with a one track mind, I never thought it’d be training,” and then clears her throat. He stares back at her, unimpressed. 

“You’re welcome to come with me, or come find me,” and she takes off again like a shot across the bridge, and he pinches the bridge of his nose and starts slowly walking back. 

* * *

Eventually, he finds her. She’s in a nook in the main building, near the library, perched on a window seat overlooking the campus. Persistent moonlight, as always, pouring through the glass and painting her almost silver in his eyes. 

She looks back at him and his breath nearly catches in his throat and instead of advancing like he always does, he wants to run away. But he’s Felix Hugo Fraldarius, so he edges closer. 

“My father said something to me recently,” she says. “He’s never seen me smile so much.” She looks at him sweetly and gives him a heart-rending, tender smile. “I said it was because of you all.”

He’s struck by the absurd thought that in this moment, her so achingly beautiful, he could kiss her. Press her up against the window and memorize every bit of skin he’s been dreaming about for the last month and make her forget about anyone else being the cause of her smile, and he tamps down on his vicious possessiveness before she can tell. 

“You’re going to do great things,” is the last thing she says before she leaves, and for some reason, it feels like a death knell instead of a prediction. 

* * *

She starts drifting away slowly, somehow. Training sessions start to taper off. She used to spend all her time with him, or Ingrid, or sometimes even Sylvain, but he sees her spend all her time with Dorothea after the White Heron Cup. When he goes to find her after classes, she’s with one of the other girls of the Three Houses. He’s seen her recruit students before; Caspar, for example. So he lets it lie, for a while. He sees her work her strange charm on Marianne, Lysithea, Petra and Bernadetta. 

He wants her to be by his side, and the realization is jolting. He quickly shoves the thought away. 

* * *

He’s been skulking in the back of the ballroom all night, angrily shooting death glares at any man or woman trying to slide into his dance card. Sylvain has flitted off into trying to charm everyone to dance with him, though he steers clear of him, Raphael, Hubert and Lorenz. Ingrid went to go dance with Ashe and hasn’t come back. Ugh. Traitors. 

He wonders why he had even come, just to watch all the pointless frippery for the sake of propriety. It would have been an insult to the church to not attend, and he knows that. Stupid politics. 

At some point his professor - really, he calls her that, but she’s always been his sparring partner more than anything - shows up. There’s a large murmur and Ophelia glides into the crowd, and his heart seizes for a moment, and he’s dumbstruck with an alien feeling. She looks...fine, he supposes. Good, even. Dressed in a white wrap dress in layers falling all around her figure, and before she can even blink Sylvain is at her side, grinning. Felix grumbles under his breath. Insatiable. 

He watches her turn him down with a wolfish, unapologetic smile and internally grins. Her personality can be such a blade, just like him. Just like Glenn was, too. 

The boar hasn’t even noticed her, wrapped up in some random girl he’s dancing with. Ophelia drifts into the crowd, and he sees Claude take her hand without a word and guide her to the dance floor. He scoffs aloud in his corner and looks away from them, not even bothering. He doesn’t care to watch. Why should he care? It’s not like he’d want to ask her to dance. It’s the boar who has the obvious, nauseating schoolboy crush on her, not him. 

* * *

He finds her in the Goddess Tower, leaning against a pillar in her pale, pale, white dress that seems nearly translucent in the moonlight, rippling all around her. Her eyes are closed, looking quiet and peaceful. 

_ Is she here to meet Claude? _ is his first ugly thought. 

“Well, look who it is.” 

Her eyes pop open and she visibly walls up when she sees him, something he’s never noticed before. It’s irritating. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted some quiet. It’s so loud, I needed some respite.”

An awkward silence ensues.

“Well, I should get going,” she says, turning her back and he watches her lie to him. She’s clearly lying and he’s instantly furious. 

“You’re avoiding me. Why,” he asks bluntly, breaking through the pretense. 

She stops, in the midst of the moonlit floor. 

He advances on her, angry, a mere foot away from her back. He’s studied her back more than once, on the battlefield, as she walks away after sparring with his ego stung, but not like this. She looks pale and small, then she straightens her spine and lifts her chin, though she still doesn’t turn. 

Her voice, when it comes out, is ice cold. “Maybe I don’t want to spar with you all the time.”

Internally, he panics that she’s telling the truth, that she’s finished with him, that she’s tired of him. She makes to move and he’s snapping at her before he realizes, “Don’t bullshit me. If that’s the truth, then turn around and look me in the eye and say so.” 

She turns around, after a tense silence, and looks at him and falters at his loaded, hard stare, then tries to regroup. She has an odd look on her face before her expression slackens, instead of hardens, back into neutrality. “I’m making this easier for the both of us.”

When he remains eerily quiet, she continues, “You’re graduating soon, and you’ve nearly beaten me several times now. You’re strong enough, now. You don’t need me anymore.”

He doesn’t say: _ I need you. _

He doesn’t say: _ I’m stronger with you. _

He doesn’t say: _ I thought we were partners. _

“So that’s it?” He hears himself say. “You just lost interest in me as a sparring partner.”

“Felix, you graduate in three months. We can’t keep going like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like- You’re going to leave, go back to Faerghus, become a Duke, and we won’t see each other anymore.”

The plain truth hits him like a wyvern. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _ oh._" She says, and walks away. 

* * *

When her father dies in front of them, he doesn’t go to her, but stands guard in front of her door for the two days she doesn’t come out of her room. No one has the heart to knock but Mercedes and Annette bring him food with sad smiles, and he always leaves half of it and when he blinks for a second, it’s gone. 

The boar prince paces back and forth in front of him a few times, until he leaves at nightfall. Sylvain spends a couple hours trying to persuade him to leave. Ingrid keeps vigil with him for a day. Ashe and Dedue bring meals. It would be heartening to see, if his heart didn’t feel half numb, half swollen with worry.

* * *

When they find her asleep in Jeralt’s room at some point on the third day, he lets the boar go in. When she emerges, there’s little color in her face, and he finally sees the ashen expression on her face that terrifies everyone else.

She tries smiling, putting on a brave face for everyone else and he’s a silent shadow by her side. Everyone she talks to as she walks around the monastery is either crying or smiling as happily as they can, edges of their mouths straining with their own grief and empathy. 

When she finally arrives at the graveyard, Caspar, Bernadetta, Dorothea, Petra, Claude, Raphael, Marianne, Lysithea, Leonie are standing there with the rest of the Blue Lions, each holding flowers. 

Felix sidles up next to her and says, quietly, “We’re with you.” 

She turns around, surprise bringing some life back into her expression. “Did you do this?”

He shakes his head and gives the smallest of smiles. “Bernadetta did.”

“She talked to all these people?” Ophelia says, flabbergasted.

“I might have helped.” Dorothea says.

“You didn’t think we would let you do this alone, did you?” Claude adds. 

Mercedes and Annette flank her, and give her a flower. 

“We’ll be right here when you’re ready,” Mercedes says softly. 

Dimitri steps forward. “We know you just lost someone, but we wanted to remind you that we’re your family. And we’re here for you.”

Ophelia looks at all of them in their uniforms, all the different multi-colored hair swaying in the wind, here for her. 

She starts crying all over again, quietly, tears mixed with sadness and gratitude.

“Thank you.”

* * *

She comes back from the black hole...different. Better. Fuller, more whole somehow, the light green hair making her look younger. Her blade pierced through the sky and there she stood as he’s always known her to be: aflame with light, and eyes hard as diamond with a sword by her side. 

The abomination calls her Fell Star. She stands ahead of them and for a moment, he resents the distance, Ophelia always out of reach, better, faster, stronger. 

By the time he reaches her side Solon’s disappeared. 

* * *

Even after all that, she avoids him. By all other appearances, she’s recovered; though a war declared by a former student is probably what’s energizing her. When she’s forced to see him (for battle strategy, and he’s gratified at least that she still keeps him on her roster) she says little and calls him “Fraldarius”. 

* * *

The next time he talks to her again is the early morning preparations; right before the Battle of Garreg Mach. She’s in the cardinals’ room by herself - Dimitri has been increasingly more erratic and indisposed - clenching and unclenching her fists about how likely her death is, here. And how likely everyone else’s is. Edelgard isn’t just good, she’s brilliant. It’s a 50/50 chance and everyone knows it, and she knows that if she factors in her own death as a way to topple Edelgard, she can increase the probability of everyone else making out alive. It’s stupid and self destructive, but - she’s thinking about it. She loves every single one of them, she can’t bear to think of any of them dying on her. There’s only so much she can do when the odds are stacked. 

She’s so lost in thought she stupidly doesn’t even see Felix come in and when she looks up he seemingly materializes out of the shadows with his usual scowl. He looks like he hasn’t slept. 

The room is terse before she says, finally dispensing of any sense of propriety since the war’s begun and they all might die today, “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” He sneers. “From one to another.” 

She looks up at him and he freezes, seeing the fatigue and concern and still-fresh grief deep in her face. She shakes her head and draws her attention back down to the maps again, saying, “You should get some sleep. Today’s going to be tough.” 

“You’re here.” 

“I’m your strategist. It’s different.”

“I’m one of your generals, Professor.” He says, mockingly. “Indulge me.”

Under her breath, she whispers _ stubborn ass _. Then, more loudly, “Why are you really here, Felix?”

“Oh, I’m Felix now, am I? Not Fraldarius?” His voice drips with sarcasm. He’s pacing, and she knows why he’s really there. It’s tempting, it really is. But she’s tired of violence already. And there’s more to come. 

She gets up to leave and doesn’t say a word as she passes by him. He whirls around and he watches her go. 

“We’re going to win this, and I’m going to surpass you still,” he calls after her. 

She stills and laughs. “You are one stubborn man, Felix. It’s almost admirable.” She half turns, her hand on the doorframe, her expression melancholy. “Whatever happens out there...please be safe. Please come back alive. And if anything happens to me, I know-”

“Don’t you dare act like this is goodbye or that we’re going to lose. Don’t you dare give up before we’ve even had our day in the sand together.” He snarls. 

She looks at him, wide eyed. 

“You’re scared of losing me. Don’t be. Don’t think we’re anywhere even _ near _finished,” he warns. “I’m going to go out into the world after we crush Edelgard, hone my blade, come back here and beat you. So you- you don’t even think about dying before then.”

She puts a hand over her face and laughs. “I care about you too, Felix.” 

* * *

The next time he sees her, five years on, is standing in the rubble of his teenage home. Twin ghosts, he thought, as he clenched his fist around his blade: the woman he let vanish, and the best friend he could never save.

“Sylvain. Ingrid.” His voice comes out strangled. “Is that who I think it is or am I dreaming?”

“It seems impossible, but I think it must be.” Ingrid says, astonished.

“Y’know, for a supposedly dead person, Professor’s looking good as ever-” Sylvain lets out a yelp as Ingrid pokes his back with her spear and hisses, “Shut _ up _, Sylvain.”

Still, Sylvain doesn’t know how to shut up, never has, so he says, “Okay, Felix, you gotta play it cool when you see her. She’ll think you’re all mature now and-”

Ingrid sighs a sigh of the long-suffering. “Let’s focus on rescuing them both right now, okay?”

* * *

When they reach the monastery, Felix yells across the distance between them, cool as ever, “I'll lend a hand. We'll catch up later.”

When he manages to be by her side, he continues to play it cool, saying casually as they’re back to back fighting for their lives, “Fancy meeting you here. A welcome surprise.”

“Just like old times, huh?” She says in between flame spells and the clashing of swords. “Dimitri filled me in. Looks like I was asleep for a long time.”

“Asleep?!” He loses his cool for a second and verges on yelling as he parries an enemy’s attack. “You mean to tell me you were asleep for five years?”

“Hey, when I was still your teacher, my eyes and hair changed color and I somehow was blessed by the Goddess or something, don’t act so shocked,” Ophelia shoots back. “I don’t know how this power stuff works. I just roll with it.”

He huffs out a laugh as they’re crouching down in the grass avoiding a barrage of arrows. “Your bizarre and brazen attitude hasn’t changed,” he says.

She grins. “And you’re still as brutally honest, I see.”

* * *

Five years. She was gone five long years. Everyone’s grown so much, both in good and devastating ways. War hangs heavy on every single one of them. It’s too overwhelming - she goes where it’s familiar.

He’s waiting for her on the training grounds, and they clash without speaking. It’s as good as he remembers, except he’s grown a lot stronger since then: had enough time to think about this, and plan. She makes him work for it, though, until they’re both pushed to a breaking point, and he sees an opening. Her wooden training sword clatters onto the ground and they look up at each other in shock. Then he smiles.

“Finally, I notched a win against you.”

“I almost had you.” Ophelia says, smiling. 

“True. It was a narrow victory. When we spar, I feel like I’m revisiting the past.”

“Why?”

“It’s like training with my brother. He always won—always—and died before I could win a single bout. From the first time I held a sword, all I wanted was to surpass him. And that’s what drove me to become so strong. Perhaps it’s absurd to say such a thing, but… I’ve spent all these years training for a duel with a corpse.”

Softly, she says, “You sound like you miss him.”

He looks upward. “Yes. I suppose I do. I can never again spar with my brother. Not unless he climbs out of his grave. Still, I continue my endless pursuit of strength. Maybe because I had a new opponent to measure myself against.”

“Who?”

“You. Obviously. I beat you this time, but when we next cross swords, who knows what might happen? It was a close match, not a crushing victory. I know that I can do better. I will surpass you in strength, and then I’ll become stronger still. So you’re not allowed to drop off the face of Fodlan until I do.”

“Felix-”

“I missed you.” He says simply. 

Ophelia closes her mouth.

“You were avoiding me right before you disappeared,” he states brusquely. “I spent five years waiting and I’m not going to let you go again.”

“Felix, I’m your professor. You can’t- _ say _things like that to me.”

“This war means there’s no professor or student relationship between us anymore, we’re partners.” He pushes off the pillar he was leaning against, stalking towards her. “Comrades-in-arms. _ Equals. _” 

“Felix-”

“Ophelia.” He looks straight at her, then, and his gaze is so intense and electrifying she immediately averts her gaze like a coward. There’s a short silence, until she dares to look up at him and see the plea in his gaze. “Wait for me?” _ Give me a chance? _

She grins at him, and it hurts for him to see, but more like if the sun was blinding him. She opens her mouth to say something, then pauses. 

“Survive this war, and I’ll consider it.”

* * *

When Rodrigue dies, she gives up any pretense of not wanting to be near him, and sleeps outside his room with a plate of food she asked Cyril or Dedue or Ashe to change every few hours. Ingrid and Sylvain both wait with her, and they both let out a few tears and tell stories as she sits and worries. They retreat to their rooms afterwards, but she doesn’t budge.

When she wakes up in the morning, slumped against the wall, a blanket is draped over her and the food is gone. 

Claude could’ve given her the blanket, anyone or this floor really, but she knows that it’s him. She comes back every so often, with food, and eventually he lets Sylvain and Ingrid in. When he emerges eventually, he’s quieter, more tired. But she gets him to eat, and Annette to distract him with songs, and he starts smiling again, fights her with vigor again and if he sheds tears at times after fighting her she doesn’t mention it.

* * *

Right before the final battle in Enbarr, she finds him in that same nook he found her years ago. 

“I avoided you back then because I could feel myself falling for you,” she says. 

The air’s different between them now. A night where everything else falls away, and the truth comes out, as their last showdown looms before them, making every worry seem trivial. 

He turns to look at her sharply, as if trying to detect a lie. She meets him head-on, fearless. She’s ready to be rejected, she’s prepared, she’s fine. His mouth opens and shuts, until he finally croaks out, “And now?”

“And now you’re even more handsome, and older than me, and impossible to ignore,” She blurts out. Okay, fine, the evening’s situational bravado is fading away, and now she’s just running on pure, sheer, nervous adrenaline. “You’ve been by my side this whole time and I…”

In one long stride he crosses the room and pulls her into a hug. She’s shocked, until she can feel him shaking. Then she whispers into his ear, “...like you, Felix Hugo Fraldarius.”

He kisses her, hard and rough until she places a hand around his face, and he slows, gentle, lets her take the lead while learning her responses to different things. She cards her hands through his hair, onto his scalp. The feeling of her against him is intoxicating, and he bites at her lips, neck, hands trailing up and down her waist. 

At some point he’s looking at her, giddy, and places a hand by her cheek. She moves ever so slightly to suck on his thumb, and his brain short-circuits. Before he can blink he’s grabbing her hand, crashing through the doors and they’re in her room. He kisses her even deeper, pressing his weight against her, and she simply melts into it as they strip on the way to the bed. She’s so wet the first time they do it he nearly comes right there, and he can’t get enough. He takes her again and again, knees swung over his shoulders, driving into her as she moans and thrashes underneath him. 

“You make cute noises,” he whispers into her ear, and thrusts into her rough and hard to hear them again, as she comes for the third time. Eventually, they have to stop to fall asleep, and they cuddle as she curls up next to him. 

He strokes her hair and says quietly, “I’m not going to say this more than once, so please listen. You are the strangest woman I have ever met and the best fighter I know. I never thought I would meet someone who...understands me like you do and yet surprises me everyday. I am stupidly, deeply in love with you. I want you to be by my side, always. Please say yes.”

She waits for so long that he almost panics, but her face blooms into a smile and she nods, then kisses him. 

“Yes.”

He kisses her back, then draws back and says, “Say it again.”

“Yes.”

“Again.”

“Yes…”

* * *

When they win, he kisses Ophelia in front of everyone in the heart of the Enbarr Palace. He’s pretty sure Rodrigue and Glenn would be embarrassed and approving respectively. 

_ Worth it. _

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I named her Ophelia specifically because I think pairing Felix up with girls who have super romance novelesque names is hilarious and cute. Dorothea, Lysithea, Annette...


End file.
